The Grave Tattoo (13 page)

‘You have to express undying admiration for our new Jerwood Centre,’ he said, turning back to show her an impish smile.

‘I think I can just about afford that,’ she said, following him out of the café.

13

Tenille surfaced from sleep in a panic, not remembering for a moment why the light was coming from the wrong direction. She thrashed free of the unfamiliar duvet in the strange bed, looking wildly round as she struggled for her bearings. Then the night before piled in on her, memories tumbling over each other in a kaleidoscope of horror. Sleep had left her sticky-eyed and sweaty, the tormented dreams like a bad taste in her mouth.

She tumbled out of bed and ran for the bathroom, just making it in time to throw up in the toilet. She lay huddled on the floor, shuddering at the unwanted images playing behind her eyes. Geno’s blood, Geno’s shredded flesh, Geno’s clothes ripped to rags. She wasn’t sorry he was dead; her teenage vision of the world admitted few shades of grey and, as far as she was concerned, he had been scum. But she was sorry she’d had to see what was left of him after her father had made him pay what was due.

She heaved herself to her feet like an old woman and shuffled into the kitchen. Somehow, the scouring of her stomach had left her hungry. All there was in the fridge was a chunk of cheddar cheese, a carton of orange juice, half a jar of mayonnaise and the remains of a bunch of spring onions. No milk, no Coke. ‘Useless,’ she muttered to herself, opening cupboards. A packet of oatcakes. Pasta, rice, tinned tomatoes, kidney beans and lentils, a few packs of instant Chinese noodles. Coffee, Earl Grey tea, drinking chocolate. A box of breakfast cereal, the kind that was all dried fruit and grains. Grumbling under her breath, Tenille grabbed the cereal and tipped some into a bowl. She poured orange juice over it and took it back to the living room.

She switched on the radio and tuned it to the local talk radio station. She needed to find out what they were saying about Geno’s death. She climbed back into bed with her food and chewed miserably while she waited for the news bulletin.

First up was some political bollocks. Why did the announcers always sound so cheerful, she wondered. Who were they trying to kid? Did they think people wouldn’t notice the crap if they made it sound like they were telling you you’d won the lottery? The relentless good spirits continued to the second item. ‘Police have launched a murder inquiry following a serious fire in a flat on the notorious Marshpool Farm Estate in Bow. The body of a man was discovered by the fire crew attending the blaze. Detective Inspector Donna Blair, who is leading the inquiry, has appealed for witnesses.’ A new voice spoke. ‘We believe that the victim may have been shot and the fire set to cover the crime,’ she said, her tone blankly official. ‘We would appeal for anyone who saw anything suspicious in or around G Block of Marshpool Farm Estate between ten and eleven yesterday evening to come forward.’

Tenille made a derisive noise. Fat chance. Nobody was going to grass up the Hammer, not if they wanted to live to see their next birthday. The announcer moved on to the next story and she tuned out the sound of his voice. There had been no surprises in the news item. She knew from watching forensic documentaries that the fire wouldn’t have disguised the fact that Geno had been blown away first. But, hopefully, it would have destroyed any traces that would lead back to her father.

She ought to think about putting in an appearance. Sharon wouldn’t be too worried once the police had told her there was only one body in the fire. She’d just assume Tenille had come back late and, finding the place crawling with cops and firemen, she’d done as any Marshpool Farm resident would in the circumstances and gone to ground. But she’d better not leave it too long. She decided she’d monitor the news until late afternoon, then she’d turn up, claiming she’d been sleeping at a friend’s house, too frightened to show her face. That should cover it.

A couple of hours later, she was interrupted in the middle of an online conversation about Keats’ ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ by a knock at the door. ‘Fuck,’ she muttered. On silent feet she made for the door, jumping nervously as the caller knocked again, this time more loudly and for longer. Tenille edged towards the door, then inched up to the spyhole. She risked a quick look.

Her mouth fell open in surprise. The last person she expected to see standing outside Jane’s door was that scumbag Jake Hartnell. It had been ages since he’d fucked off. Jane hadn’t said much about it, but Tenille had read the misery in her face when she talked about him going off to Greece. Now it looked as though Greece hadn’t worked out and the useless wanker was back. Well, she was sure as hell not going to open up for him. Nor did she have any intention of letting Jane know he’d come knocking.

The letter box rattled and Tenille pressed herself back against the wall, holding her breath. ‘Jane?’ he called out. Like that would have made Jane come running, Tenille thought contemptuously. She heard him sigh, then the flap clattered shut. She stayed put, wanting to make sure he was gone before she made a break for the study. Long seconds passed, then the letter box banged back and a sheet torn from a notebook fell to the mat. Tenille counted to sixty, then bent down to pick up the paper. She shook her head in exasperated disbelief as she read it.
Dear Jane, I just got back from Crete and came straight round to see you, but you weren’t in. I’ve missed you and I want to see you. I’ll give you a ring later. Hope we can meet for a drink or dinner. Love, Jake.

Love, Tenille thought. Adults could be so stupid. You didn’t have to be a genius to know Jake’s stupid note had no chance of getting a result. The way he’d upset Jane, he’d need to splash out on the entire contents of a flower shop before she’d maybe think about letting him buy her a bottle of champagne. At least, he would if Jane had any sense. Which Tenille seriously doubted where Jake was concerned. She screwed the paper up into a ball and tossed it into the bin as she went back to her chat room. No way was she going to give Jane the chance to make a fool of herself over Jake again.

It was the least she could do in return for Jane sorting Geno.

Jake turned away and walked briskly down the bleak gallery, frustrated at Jane’s absence, wondering where she was. He was sure this wasn’t one of her days for the Viking, nor did she teach today either. She should have been home. It never occurred to him that it was unreasonable to expect that her life would still run to the rhythms that had driven it when he had been part of it.

He took the stairs at a run, trying not to think about why they stank of acrid smoke instead of piss, and hurried back to where he’d parked the car. To his relief, Caroline’s Audi was still there, apparently untouched. He knew Marshpool Farm well enough to realise that broad daylight was no guarantee of a smart car’s safety. Nor were the two police cars parked nearby. Once inside, he locked the doors and pondered his next move. He was going to have to work at getting back in with Jane again. Face to face, one to one was the best way to achieve that. The Viking was out of the question; Harry would be there at her side, ready to put the shaft in. Harry had never liked him. The university was no better a prospect. There, she’d be flanked by colleagues, friends, students, all convenient shields to hide behind. And the library was a bad idea. Too easy for her to take refuge in the silence.

One thing was certain. He couldn’t hang around the estate, staking out her flat like some seedy private eye. He’d attract far too much attention from the sort of people who wouldn’t hesitate to do whatever it took to part him from car, wallet and mobile phone. Not to mention the police, who would be interested in anyone driving a car like the Audi around the Marshpool.

At last, because he couldn’t think of anything else to do, he called the university. If she had changed her schedule and was teaching today, it would be a lot easier to keep watch for her there. Then he could follow her and choose his moment.

When he was finally connected to the English Department secretary, she put him on hold while she made enquiries. Jake drummed his fingers impatiently against the wheel as he tried not to listen to the tinny whine of Sting’s voice. What possessed the people who chose the music to fill callers’ ears, he wondered. Why couldn’t they choose something calm and soothing so the person hanging endlessly on the line would have their homicidal urges eased rather than exacerbated? He was profoundly grateful when the music stopped abruptly and the woman’s voice came back on the line. ‘You’re out of luck,’ she said. ‘Jane Gresham isn’t teaching today. In fact, she has a leave of absence. She won’t be back in the department for two weeks.’

‘Leave of absence? Why? Is there some family crisis or something?’

‘All I can tell you is what’s in the system. “Leave of absence for purposes of study”, that’s all it says here. If you want to leave a message, I can put it in her pigeonhole.’

‘No, thanks all the same. I appreciate your help.’ Jake ended the call with a quickening of his heart. Study leave, in the middle of term. That could only be because something unforeseen and urgent had cropped up.

Something like a body in a bog, perhaps.

Detective Inspector Donna Blair frowned at the forensic report. ‘Are you sure?’ she said.

‘I’m sure,’ the fingerprint technician said. ‘Your boys brought in the remains of a sawn-off shotgun from the scene. The stock was too badly charred for prints, but we got lucky with the barrel. Even though fire boils off the water content, if it’s not too intense, the fat deposits remain on the metal. We tried Sudan Black…’

‘Spare me the details,’ Donna said.

The technician shrugged. ‘It’s all in the report. We got a couple of prints. They don’t match anyone in the database, but they do match the elimination prints we took from Tenille Cole’s bedroom.’

Donna shook her head, depressed at the thought. ‘It fits. We’ve also got a witness who has her leaving the flat about five minutes before the fire was reported. OK, thanks.’

Chip off the old block
, Donna thought as she ran downstairs to the interview room. The Hammer’s daughter seemed to be following in her old man’s footsteps. The media were going to love this. There would be a feeding frenzy the minute they twigged the prime suspect was a pretty teenager with the kind of lurid background that was a gift to journalistic spin. No matter that the Hammer had taken no part in her upbringing; the connection would be enough to transform Tenille Cole into the kind of cold-blooded killer that would chill the hearts of readers all too ready to demonise any section of the population that wasn’t identifiably them.

Donna took a detour into the ladies’ toilet where she locked herself into a cubicle. If their prime suspect was the killer, there weren’t too many likely motives floating around. The obvious one was the one most calculated to piss Sharon Cole right off. Donna wanted to be ready for the fall-out. Sitting down on the toilet, she closed her eyes, breathing deeply. She cleared her mind, picturing waves breaking on a winter beach, until she could feel her shoulders lowering.

Moments later, she was striding down the hall towards the interview room. Sharon Cole’s head snapped up as soon as Donna entered the room. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she held herself erect in her chair. ‘What’re you keeping me here for?’ she demanded. ‘I’m the victim here.’

Donna understood the emotions hiding behind Sharon’s bravado. She had a gift for empathy. But while most cops who shared that knack used it to get alongside their target, coaxing information from them, Donna had a different approach. She used her understanding to dive under their guard and go straight for their vulnerabilities. The more uncomfortable she felt, the more she knew she was unsettling her opponent. Come a certain point and they would crack open for her. Her forensic skill at dissecting witnesses and suspects made her colleagues regard her with wariness. She didn’t care. She got the results and that was what counted. Taking bastards off the streets, that’s what she was there for, not social work.

Donna waited till she was seated opposite Sharon before she opened her mouth. ‘Don’t give me that victim routine, Sharon. You’re guilty as hell and you know it.’

Confusion wriggled across Sharon’s face. This wasn’t how she expected to be treated, not after the solicitude she’d experienced at the hands of the officers who had brought her in. ‘I was at work all night. Ask anybody, they’ll tell you.’

‘You might not have blown Geno to kingdom come. You might not have fired your own flat. But you’re responsible for what went down there last night.’ Donna could feel Sharon’s anger. What she wanted was unease, but she wasn’t there yet.

‘That’s bullshit. You saying I hired some hitman? Why would I do a thing like that? I loved Geno.’

Donna rolled her eyes. ‘Oh please, spare me that. All you were to each other was a convenient shag. Though, come to think of it, some people in your shoes would have considered hiring a button man.’